swift gleam of a javelin as it buried itself in the thick of the
pack. In a flash the head and shoulders of the javelin-thrower had
disappeared, and in that same moment Philip heard a low cry behind
him. Celie had returned to the window. She had seen what he had
seen, and her breath came suddenly in a swift and sobbing
excitement. In amazement he saw that she was no longer pale. A
vivid flush had gathered in each of her cheeks and her eyes blazed
with a dark fire. One of her hands caught his arm and her fingers
pinched his flesh. He stared dumbly for a moment at the strange
transformation in her. He almost believed that she wanted to
fight--that she was ready to rush out shoulder to shoulder with
him against their enemies. Scarcely had the cry fallen from her
lips when she turned and ran swiftly into her room. It seemed to
Philip that she was not gone ten seconds. When she returned she
thrust into his hand a revolver.

It was a toy affair. The weight and size of the weapon told him
that before he broke it and looked at the caliber. It was a
"stocking" gun as they called those things in the service, fully
loaded with .22 caliber shots and good for a possible partridge at
fifteen or twenty paces. Under other conditions it would have
furnished him with considerable amusement. But the present was not
yesterday or the day before. It was a moment of grim necessity--
and the tiny weapon gave him the satisfaction of knowing that he
was not entirely helpless against the javelins. It would shoot as
far as the stockade, and it might topple a man over if he hit him
just right. Anyway, it would make a noise.

A noise! The grin that had come into his face died out suddenly as
he looked at Celie. He wondered if to her had come the thought